Permission to Come Aboard?
by owlcroft
Summary: A three-way cross-over between our guys, Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey and Maturin, and a special guest star. Hardcastle and McCormick go on a voyage, but Mark makes the trip by rail.


A/N: This piece was first written as a series of posts on the Gull's Way board. Thanks to all the members thereof who put up with our hijinks.

PERMISSION TO COME ABOARD?

By L.M. Lewis, Carole Manny, Owlcroft

"So you figure we can use that – what is it? Tarpon, to go look for Derwent?" The judge shook his head in doubt. "Not tarpon, tarfish? Whatever it is, you think you remember how to set the controls okay?"

"Sure," replied McCormick, leading the way to the sometime gatehouse kitchenette. "It's all pretty simple, and this way we can catch him in the act. You know, right at the moment he tosses the burger wrapper out of his car window."

Hardcastle shrugged and then nodded. "Yeah, I guess it's the best way to catch him actually committing the crime." He passed through the archway then steadied himself for the transition as Mark headed for the console.

ooooo

"What the --?' An astonished judge gazed in shock at the billowing sheets, as McCormick sprinted for the rail.

"You goofball!" he shouted at the heaving McCormick. "It was supposed to be 1985, not 1785!"

A small, sallow man stepped to Hardcastle's elbow. "Maturin," he murmured deprecatingly. "Might I inquire as to your provenance, sir?"

"Lesser of two weevils," chuckled a large man in a filthy, but ostentatiously ornate naval uniform, ascending the steps to the forecastle as the ship dipped and curvetted, prow dashed with spray  
and sails flapping noisily.

Lucky Jack didn't usually have to resort to sweeping up landlubbers to stiffen his ranks, but they had been out past the beer rations for a good two months now, and Stephen had warned him that the kegs of lemon juice they'd taken on in the Honduras had been sophisticated. Half the starboard watch had loose teeth and the cook's old right stump was bleeding like a fresh wound.

The tall skinny one would make a promising foretopman--if he could ever stop vomiting long enough to drag himself away from the rail. And the older fellow--well, not much good in the rigging, but he looked like one you'd want at your back in a fight--perhaps he'd offer him to the Marines.

"Bonden! Barrett Bonden!" roared Jack. He waved a hand at the doughty man in the odd shirt reading 'Judges Bang Gavels' and glanced again at the lanky fellow making the trip by rail. "Here's a likely cannoneer. See him below and make him acquainted with the Marines."

"Hey, listen, buddy," replied the gray-haired involuntary recruit, "don't get your hopes up. We're just here by mistake and we'll be leaving as soon as the fail-safe kicks in. McCormick!" he bellowed.

"Good, healthy lungs," observed Maturin dispassionately. "Admirable tattoo, also. I surmise you have some previous naval experience, sir."

The undernourished man dragged himself briefly upright, gasped, "Oh, my God! The failsafe!" and went back to feeding the fishes.

"Killick! Killick, there!" called Jack. "Pass the word for my steward."

"What now?" Killick cried in his disagreeable whine, dusting chalk from his hands and looking mean and froward. "Which I'm in the middle of polishing the silver."

"Pipe down. Help Bonden sling hammocks forward for these men, and tell my clerk to enter their names in the books. We can rate them ordinary for now, larboard watch," he added, cocking a critical eye at McCormick, who besides having invaded the holy windward side of the quarterdeck was now being sick in a bucket of slush, the midshipman in charge of the bucket having seized upon the appearance of these strangers as an opportunity for abandoning it in favor of gaping at the newcomers, until he was recalled to his duty by a kick from Pullings.

Stephen stepped forward. "A nice cholagogue, a comfortable slime draught, and a blue pill are what this gentleman" --nodding toward McCormick's back-- "needs before a hammock; indeed, needs more than a hammock, sir. Portable soup and a low diet, with the inspissated juice of lemons added to his wine, and no nasty grog."

"Make it so, Doctor," said Jack. "Now then, sir" --addressing Hardcastle-- "how come you to make this sudden appearance upon my quarterdeck?"

Before the Judge could answer the main topgallant staysail gave a thunderous flap. "Mind your helm!" roared Jack to the man at the wheel. "Pack of scrovies," he muttered. "Now, sir."

"Look, Captain," Hardcastle said. "I appreciate your concern, but we really don't need any pissy lemonade. We just need to get back to Santa Monica."

Mark had turned a distinct green at the mention of the doctor's draught. "Slime?" he quavered.

Maturn shrugged and took McCormick by the elbow to lead him back to the leeside. 'Truth be known, it's a saline draught, but the typesetters could never read O'Brian's handwriting. Believe me, sir,  
slime or saline, it'll set you up right as a trivet in no time. You'll be in fine fettle for tomorrow's Boiled Baby. Oh, what an interesting shade of bile!" he admired as McCormick once again hit the railing with his elbows.

"Speaking of that Boiled Baby," muttered Killick to Bonden, "I'm getting back to the Soused Pig's Face for the captain."

Aubrey and Hardcastle had squared off and were exchanging hostile stares.

"See here," Jack began.

"No, _you_ see here," interrupted the judge. "We just made a little mistake in the settings and we'll outta your hair in two shakes."

The captain looked at him admiringly. "A fine sense of language and I'd be much interested to know which of the islands you cohabit, but now," he advanced a step in determination, "I'll have respect on board my ship or wear your guts for garters!"

'Say," observed the judge, looking around him, "I had a boat once. Lot nicer than this tub, too. But smaller," he added generously.

"Tub? _Tub_?!" Jack shouted. "No man miscarriages the Surprise!"

"Disparages, my dear," murmured Stephen, unheard.

"We'll see if you change your tune after a taste of the cat!" Aubrey continued.

Mark shuddered and turned once more to the rail. "They eat cats," he moaned.

Suddenly an anguished cry from below rent the ship. The crew froze as the wail rose. "We're out of powder!!"

Jack clapped a hand to his head, then shook it painfully, examining his palm and swearing to never strike himself again. "Out of powder! How can that be!"

"I can't make Spotted Dick without baking powder!" screamed the ship's cook, appearing suddenly from belowdecks and shaking his fists at the lowering sky.

"There, there," soothed Maturin. "Of course you can. You always have. It won't be invented until 1855, you know."

An odd whooshing, whining noise interrupted both men, as a tall blue box suddenly appeared on the forecastle, tiny top light blinking rapidly.

"Hullo, everyone!" said a lanky, curly-headed gentleman in a frock coat and nine-yard-long knitted scarf. He looked at the two men in t-shirts and sighed in disapproval. "I distinctly said you were to keep to your own century, you know. Can't have all this gallivanting off to other times. Come along now, and I'll see if we can't get you back to the gatehouse." He took McCormick's arm from Maturin and motioned for Hardcastle to join them. "Get back, K-9," he admonished as the small party entered the blue box.

Stephen stepped closer to the oddly-dressed man and peered up at him. "Hmm," he squinted closely at the tall gentleman's face and hair. "Definitely a resemblance. Ireland, faith, my _own_ land?" He reached out surreptitiously to touch the scarf in a covetous manner.

"See here, old thing," the scarfed man put a friendly arm around Stephen's shoulders and drew him aside. "Things get a bit tricky, you know, travelling all about the place the way I do. I daresay that at some point in an alternate universe--" he stopped momentarily, held up his right hand to the southeastern sky, thumb and forefingers pinched together and stared intently between his ring and pinky fingers. "No," he sighed, "not there. I was trying to find E-Space again, you see," he explained earnestly. "What's your name? Stephen? Hullo, Stephen. I'm the Doctor. Oh, really, you, too? We must have a good coze about medicines very, very soon. But in the meanwhile, this young man, who, as you have pointed out with quite outstanding acumen bears a strong resemblance to . . . well, to me . . . well, let's just say that there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio--" He stopped suddenly, "Oh, you've heard that one, eh? Well, you'll just have to work it out for yourself." He leaned to whisper to Maturin, "It's all private family business." He nodded seriously, several times, then abruptly turned to Jack and boomed out a "good-bye!", waving enthusiastically and bestowing a final grin around the deck before stepping backward into the blue box and slamming the door closed.

Stephen sighed and gave up all hope of the scarf. To his eternal joy and the midshipmen's everlasting delight, the strange box disappeared with a horrendous groaning noise and the crew was left staring about in astonishment.

"Well, Doctor," commented Jack in commiseration, "shall we have a little music instead?"

"Mighty cramped in there, it do be," opined Preserved Killick.

Bonden nodded. "Aye, must do. They'll be all good friends after that voyage, I reckon."

ooooo

Mark stumbled over a clump of tussocky scrub, and went to his knees. "Yuck," he exclaimed. "It's a septic field!"

"Nah," the judge peered anxiously through the fog. "Bog, actually. We must be on the moors somewhere in England."

"Oh, great," whined McCormick, wiping his hand on the condensation-coated grass. "Wrong time, wrong place, what else can go wrong?"

Hardcastle stooped and examined something on the ground, then beckoned his younger companion over. "This can," he said portentously.

Mark bent over and stared at the imprints on the heath. "Judge," he whispered, "they're the footprints of a gigantic hound!"

_finis_


End file.
